


So You've Brought About the Apocalypse...

by LotusFlair



Series: A Series of Archival Speculations [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, MAG 160, spoilers for the finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: In the aftermath, Jon and Martin have some things to process. A lot of things.





	So You've Brought About the Apocalypse...

He was laughing until he wasn't. Jon sank back against Martin as the weight of what was happening outside finally beat him into submission. Tears streamed down Jon's face as he looked into a world he'd doomed to destruction. Martin hovered by his side, assessing him and his state of mind now that the laughing had turned to choking sobs. He felt cold. His body began to shiver until it was shaking and only when Martin moved in closer did he feel any semblance of warmth return. But he couldn't stop staring out the windows shattered by the force of the...ritual. He'd done this. He'd destroyed the world. He was the reason they were all going to die.

"Jon. Jon? Look at me, Jon," Martin said. He wanted to listen, but his body felt heavy and the world was moving in slow motion. The only thoughts running through his mind were vitriolic as the events leading towards this horror looped around for another viewing. 

"It was me. It was me. It was me," Jon whispered. "I did this. I did this. I did this."

The mantra repeated itself through Jon's graveled voice. His eyes remained lost in guilt and shame, but he wouldn't look away. It was his reward and his punishment. He had to see, to watch what he'd wrought. Martin understood the only solution was to physically drag Jon from what was essentially the living room into what passed for a bedroom. The Archivist didn't fight back as they gained more distance, letting Martin position him on the room's twin bed with quiet resignation. Slamming the door shut, Martin drew down the blinds leaving them in the ambient light of an electric lantern. All the while, Jon continued to mutter the same words under his breath.

The desire to run and hide was strong and Martin was lying to himself if he didn't admit to feeling the Lonely calling him to make good on those thoughts. Returning to the fog, escaping what was almost certain death towards an ostensibly less painful certain death seemed like a sound plan. But for Jon...

Sitting next to him on the bed, Martin took Jon's hand and placed it against his chest, over his heart. He felt Jon's fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, flexing in time with the rhythm. He turned Jon's face towards him, letting their eyes meet. "Jon, tell me what happened. Don't shut down on me, okay? I need you to talk to me."

The mantra stopped, but Jon's eyes remained devastated with fear. Renewed tears filled his eyes as he said, "I've killed you. I've killed you all."

"I don't understand..."

Jon let the words spill out as he told Martin about the false statement, Jonah's magnum opus, and the part he'd unknowingly played in bringing about the end of all things. Martin listened, but he managed to keep his face neutral. He was horrified, to say the least, but he didn't want Jon to interpret those emotions as condemnation. That wasn't going to stop Jon's personal flavor of guilt from twisting mundane actions and expressions into accusations, but Martin refused to feed that fire anymore than Jon did naturally. This one was already a bonfire.

"...and then the window shattered and I...passed out. You got me up and...." He covered his mouth as the horror of what he'd done struck him once again. Between heaving breaths and even greater sobs, he managed to say, "I'm sorry, Martin. I'm so sorry."

"Jon," Martin said, softly, "it's not your fault."

"How the fuck can you say that?!" Jon shouted. "I opened the door! They're out there because of me!"

"Because Jonah Magnus used you," Martin said. "You don't - you don't blame the instrument if the musician hits a bad note."

"Instruments aren't living, breathing, thinking beings, Martin. They're never given the opportunity to stop the musician from ruining the piece," Jon countered. "Instruments don't doom the world."

"You're not the only one he used," Martin said, the low tone of his voice catching Jon off guard. "I'm just as complicit in this as you."

"Martin..."

"If I had just been stronger...if I'd been able to handle the pressure more. I wouldn't have taken Peter's deal. They wanted us separated and they kept us distracted so they could walk us right into Hell. I played into Jonah's hands the same as you," he said, his voice catching towards the end. "I'm the reason you went into the Lonely in the first place. He won because of me."

"Stop it," Jon said angrily. "You couldn't have known."

Martin glared in response. "Same to you. Two hundred years, Jon. That's how long he's had to plan this. We were in over our heads before we knew the archives existed."

"I should've been able to--"

"Do what?! Stop him? You didn't know what to stop! None of us did!" Martin shouted. He was on his feet, pacing the length of the room. "You think the Eye was going to clue you in on Magnus's plans?"

Jon struggled to answer. "I-I could've stopped. I could've walked away when Georgie told me to. I could've gouged my eyes out! I could've died when I had the chance!"

"And delayed him the same as Gertrude! He was going to do it no matter who he chose! It was just a matter of time! I could've actually killed him, Jon! I was right there!" He stopped as a grim thought slowly ghosted across his face. "I had a knife. I-I could've stopped it."

The anger and guilt hung over them, but it was hard for Jon to look at Martin with anything other than affection. They'd sacrificed so much for each other in the last three years and now here they were, fighting over who was more responsible for the apocalypse. Jon crossed the room, grappling Martin in the tightest hug he could muster. Martin was stiff for a moment, the anger still present, but he melted easily and wrapped his arms around Jon. Like in the Lonely, he pressed his face into Jon's shoulder, muttering into the fabric, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

"You've already done it," Jon whispered. "I couldn't have survived this long without you."

"That's not as comforting as you might think," Martin said, his voice slightly muffled. Despite everything, Jon chuckled. Only Martin could make him laugh at the literal end of the world. The hug ended, but Jon wouldn't let go of Martin's hand. He needed the contact to keep grounded. As always, he needed Martin.

"We've both suffered because of Magnus," Jon started, his voice still raspy but gentle. "You more than most. I'm sorry I didn't - didn't think about what this meant for you too."

"You told me I wasn't alone anymore," Martin said, squeezing his hand. "Neither are you. Not in this...fresh Hell. Not in whatever we do to fix this. **Not ever**. At least...not while I'm around."

"You - you want to fix the world?"

"You don't?"

"I wouldn't know where to start. I don't - I don't know if I can," Jon said. "I'm the Eye's avatar. I let it take root in the sky. If I move against it...I don't know what it will do to me...or what I'll do to you."

"We still have to _try_, Jon," Martin said. Jon's mouth curled in a slight smile. Of course Martin wanted to save the world. Of course his bravery would shine through when darkness loomed from above. He loved him for it, but what could they possibly do to stop...?

"The tapes," Jon said.

"What?"

Jon bolted out to the living room. Pushing through the splintered wood and glass, he found the package of statements Basira sent. Making sure to keep his eyes downcast, ignoring the outside world with every fiber of his being, Jon snatched the package and ran back into the bedroom. He dumped the contents on to the bed and began looking at the tapes, checking the labels for any clues.

"Why would Basira send tapes? They don't work the same way as recording the written statements," Jon said in the tone he often took when he was talking to himself. Martin watched him sort through the tapes, but noticed a trail of red droplets that followed his erratic path.

"Jon, your hands," Martin said.

"What?" He hadn't felt the glass cut him, but he was bleeding. He waited for the cuts to instantly heal, but they remained open, throbbing in the pain of discovery. He grimaced at the wounds, but he wouldn't give the Eye the satisfaction of seeing his surprise. What need did the Eye have of him now that it was beyond the door between worlds? Whatever threat he posed was now hindered by his own mortality. So be it.

"Jon..."

"Basira didn't send these," Jon said, returning his attention to the statements. "Maybe the paper - or maybe it was all Magnus - but the tapes...whenever I've gotten one I didn't make or find myself, it's because someone, or something, wanted me to listen and know something important."

"Then who, or what, sent them?" Martin asked.

"Who else has access to the archives?"

"You think...the Web?"

"Maybe. It's the only option that makes sense. Gerry said the Web liked the world as it was. That's why they never attempted a ritual," Jon said.

"But they benefit from this...apocalypse just as much as the other entities."

"Do they, though? The Eye hovers above all of them and it's watching them just as much as the people they're feeding off," he said. "The Web likes being in control on its own terms. I can't imagine Annabelle and her lot are thrilled with the power shift."

"Then why didn't they try to stop it?" Martin asked, anger worming back into his words.

"Direct conflict isn't their style," Jon said. "There's something here that I need to know. Maybe it's a way to fix things. Maybe-maybe I was their instrument all along. They marked me first and they've just been biding their time. A Trojan horse in the making."

"Jon..."

Martin regarded him quietly. There was little he could offer in the way of comfort and it showed in the tight line of his mouth and woeful eyes. They were teetering between hope and dismay and Jon wished he could give Martin back the relative peace of the last three weeks. They'd been blessed with a brief period of domesticity that almost agreed with them before chaos struck. Unfortunately, chaos felt more familiar. There was no thrill in it, but Jon understood how they thrived within the crisis. Maybe, if they saved the world and didn't die in the process, they could come back and try again.

"Okay," Martin said, nodding his agreement, "but let's get your hands cleaned up. Then we'll figure out our next move, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jon said. When Martin was gone, Jon collapsed on to the bed. He could feel all of them. They'd marked him and he was their conduit, their archive of terror. Did that give him an advantage over the Fears or was he going to be a liability to Martin's survival? Jonah said to keep an eye on him. It was a sick joke from a sick man driven by power and greed who declared himself the winner in the grand scheme of it all. But that didn't mean his victory was secure. Reaching towards one of the tapes, he heard the distinct sound of a recorder coming to life.

He thought of Martin and possibilities and he let himself hope. Just as Martin entered with the first aid kit, Jon whispered to the dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies, "This isn't over. It's only just begun. Now it's _my _turn."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for guilt turned into action. I'm sure Jon's guilt will linger throughout the final season, but I need to process my feelings!


End file.
